You Lose, I Win, Dance Monkey, Dance!
by vrhame211
Summary: You and Sam make a friendly bet for the annual Drake poker game. After a surprising loss, Sam is forced to 'perform'. He's sexy, he knows it, and he works out, what more can a girl ask for? This is my first reader fic and is just a simple but complete one shot.


"You sure this is how you wanna use your win?"

"Yup."

Sam kicks off his well worn black boots and throws them in the corner of the room as you stand near the microwave, your arms crossed, watching him. Two nights ago, the annual Drake poker game was held. The usual suspects had been invited, and all of them had shown up. You weren't great at poker, but you knew that you could hold your own thanks to your own annual game with Halloween candy when you were younger. Sam, ever boastful, told you you didn't stand a chance. After an hour of debate and playful insults, a wager had been decided upon between the two of you. The first one to go all in and bust, lost; Winning the whole game wasn't necessary, just out playing each other. The loser would then have to perform for the winner, whatever they wanted, for fifteen minutes.

Sam was convinced he had it in the bag. Fifteen years in jail was a long time to cultivate one's poker skills along with the ability to read people's faces. He was mentally picking out an outfit for you to do a striptease to when you won your third pot of the night and Elena was suddenly out of the game.

What he had underestimated was his ability to read your poker face.

Neither of you had ended up the big winner of the night. That honor went to Sully who walked away from the table with a cool $500 in his pocket. His hands managed to knock out you and Nate in the end while Sam was taken out by a pair of pocket aces from his little brother.

Knowing your quirky personality, Sam had expected to be singing Kelly Clarkson karaoke or reciting half the lines from _Jaws_ while sitting in a small rowboat. This was the last thing he had expected he would have to do.

"You want to watch me work out for fifteen minutes?"

"Yup," You remove the clear plastic wrapper from a bag of popcorn, throw it in the microwave and set the timer. Sam takes off his socks and chucks them aside happily; it's stuffy in the room and sweat has already started to form on his brow and upper lip.

"Jesus, it's like the ninth circle of Hell in here. What's that thing say?" He says, gesturing to the thermostat on the wall.

You walk to the side of the room where the dial thermostat is mounted on the wall.

"A balmy 81 degrees," you announce as you glance at the small hash marks on the circle. You smile a content smile and head towards the corner of the room where your stuff is piled.

"Why don't you open the window or something?"

"Can't. It will ruin the ambiance," You dramatically proclaim. Behind your duffels, you pull out a folded up lawn chair. You snap the beat up beige chair open and place it in front of Sam; you want to make sure it's positioned for optimal viewing pleasure.

"Where did that come from?" Sam asks, more to himself than to you. The microwave beeps as the last kernels of popcorn burst and fills the bag.

"Stole it from the motel owners back yard. I'll leave it in the corner when we leave," You explain and take you popcorn out of the microwave. You settle yourself down in the stolen piece of lawn furniture, your legs crossed, your bare feet tucked under your thighs. You rip open the steaming popcorn bag and set it in your lap.

"Ok, I'm ready," You proclaim to Sam with a smile.

"And this is what you want me to wear?" He gestures to the faded black jeans and matching tight t-shirt he has on.

"Yup, except for the t-shirt, that's gotta go," you say with a rueful smile and point at him playfully. Sam snorts and grabs the hem of his shirt.

"Wait!" You exclaim and grab your phone. Sam waits patiently while you punch something up on the screen that he can't quite make out. You hit the button the side of your phone and plopped it on the table face down next to you. The throbbing beat of Nine Inch Nails begins to play from the small speaker on the back of your cell.

"Ok, now I'm ready," You announce. You wiggle down into the seat, popcorn perched in your lap. Sam laughs at you with disbelief.

"Really?" He asks.

"Yup."

"This is how it's gonna go, huh?" Sam questions again dubiously, shaking his head. He grabs the bottom hem of his shirt and peels it over the top of his head, exposing his well-defined chest. He throws his shirt to you, and you hold it up to your nose. It smells like Sam, cigarettes, deodorant, cheap cologne and a hint of laundry soap. It's an intoxicating scent that calms your nerves and sends a live wire through your heart at the same time.

You examine Sam up and down. Shirtless? Check. Sweat? Check. Those black jeans that make his ass look amazing? Check. Perfect.

"Alright sweetheart, if you insist," Sam grunts as he jumps up and grabs the exposed iron beam overhead. His biceps and shoulders raise and round out as he adjusts his grip. Sam grasps the metal firmly and lifts himself slowly in the air. His knees naturally curl behind him, his strong shoulders tense as he brings his chin level with his hands. He holds it for a moment before lowering himself back to his original position. With the temperature in the room so warm, he already feels a bead of sweat starting to roll down his damp lower back. Sam pulls himself back up again and again, the muscles of his arms bulging tight within his tanned skin.

As he lowers himself, he catches a glimpse of you, sitting in your stolen camp chair with your popcorn, staring at him intently. He lets go of the beam and lands solidly on the floor.

"So," He says as he grabs his pack of smokes from the table near him, "Everything you thought it would be?"

"So far yes, but I think the next set you should be facing the other way," You respond with a goofy grin.

Sam rolls his eyes, lights his smoke and throws the lighter back on the table. He turns and jumps, grabbing the overhead beam again.

"Wait," you call out, causing him to look over his shoulder at you, "Are you seriously going to work out and smoke at the same time?"

He shoots you a sly grin, smoke curling and corkscrewing into the sky from the cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth, and goes back to his routine. He pulls himself up, you watch the smooth muscles over his shoulder blades ripple and rise with every dip of his body. A film of sweat is clinging to his back, a glinting trail from a bead of perspiration snakes down the dip of his lower back like a river, ending right above his tight ass at the waist of his jeans. Oh, that ass.

You aren't sure how much time has passed or how many reps Sam has done. The fluid motion of his strong back, broad shoulders and thick arms working together under that tanned, sweaty skin like a well-oiled machine have put you into a hormone laced trance that is only broken when his finally lets go and lands back on the floor.

"You're lookin' at me like I'm a steak," Sam observes as he stubs his cigarette butt out in the ashtray on the counter.

"More like my own personal side of prime cut beef," You counter, knowing beefcake is too little and too cute of a phrase when referring to a body like Sam's.

"Nothin' but Grade A beef baby," He quips, smacking the side of his own ass for effect, making you laugh. Sam squats down on the floor with a small grunt and rolls onto his back.

"Oh, time for crunches?" You question with excitement.

"Ah, ah, ah, no," He says, sitting back up, pointing a finger at you. "They're called sit ups. Crunches are what women do in those pricey gyms."

"Let me guess, real men, call them sit ups. Ones that have spent time in a Panamanian jail in particular," You question him.

"You got it, sweetheart," Sam says and gives you a quick wink of a hazel eye before he rolls back onto the floor, locking his hands behind his head. You watch hungrily as his torso comes up, the definition of his strong ab muscles, like tight ropes being pulled by horses, emerging from underneath his skin as he touches his elbows to his knees. Sam stares at you intently through every repetition while you sit in your stolen chair, absently trying to get popcorn in your mouth while you are enthralled by the motion of his half naked, sweaty body.

You put your popcorn aside and kneel in front of him, resting your arms on his knees. He pulls his body up one more time; you can feel the muscles in his legs go taught in the black jeans beneath your hands. Sitting up, Sam rests his warm arms, slick with perspiration on top of yours. His face, his lips, his crackling hazel eyes mere inches from your own. Your heart flip flops as tilts his head to the side and exhales.

"Satisfied?" Sam asks, slightly out of breath. You check the time on the microwave across the room.

"Three minutes of push ups and I will be," You answer. You have three more minutes and an insatiable desire to see those arms at work one more time, up close and personal.

Sam smiles and shakes his head, running a hand through his damp hair, making a drop of sweat weave its way down between the birds tattooed on his neck.

You watch him roll onto his flat stomach, giving you the full view of his strong, naked back. You back up a bit and sit on your hands to resist the urge to get your hands on that perfect butt in those jeans.

Sam puts his rugged hands on the floor, pushing himself up slowly on his balls of his feet. His biceps flex as he holds himself up, the faded playing cards of his tattoo rounding themselves around his broad shoulder. Sam lowers his body back down slowly, the large vein of him forearm presses against the thick skin that contains it. The rhythm of his body, pistoning up and down against the cool cement floor sends your mind into the deepest, hormone drunk gutter your brain can produce.

"At least I get a decent view," Sam says, glancing up at you with a smirk. Leaning over, your elbows perched on the knees of your crossed legs combined with the deep V of your t-shirt is giving your cleavage a center stage show in front of Sam.

"Pig," You say jokingly.

"Two minutes ago I was a side of beef! Cow, pig, jeez, make up your mind woman!" He exclaims back with a small grunt, pushing himself up off the ground one more time. You see the taut muscles of his arms begin to tremble from use. I guess that's enough you think to yourself. You didn't want to completely exhaust him, at least not this way.

"Alright, alright, you're done,' You tell him, standing up and grabbing your chair.

"Thank Christ," He exclaims. He stands and pushes his unruly hair back, slick with sweat, against his head and exhales with finality. His body is red and blotchy with heat and glistening with sweat head to toe, giving you the perfect image of a hot, sweaty, breathy Samuel Drake. Exactly what you wanted.

"I gotta get out of these pants," He says undoing the top button of his jeans, causing your heart to thud heavy in your chest.

"I'm gonna have a shower," He announces, "This I'm gonna do without an audience," He adds after a minute and heads towards the bathroom.

"Oh come on!" You protest as you follow him.

"Nope, nuh uh. You got your fifteen minutes of performance, this poodle is done," He says as he closes the bathroom door on you. You think for a moment, head towards the fridge and grab a cold beer. You head back towards the bathroom, hear the shower start up and rap a knuckle on the closed door.

"What?" Sam asks over the sound of the water.

You open the door a crack and twist the top off the beer, the whoosh of the bottle opening surprisingly audible over the running shower. You toss the cap absently on the bathroom floor and shove the beer through the opening, holding it blindly in your hand. After a moment, you feel Sam's rough fingers on your own as he grabs the beer out of your outstretched hand.

You hear a playful growl. A strong arm grabs you around the waist in surprise. Sam hauls you into the bathroom, causing you to let out a squealing giggle as he buries his warm face in your neck and kicks the bathroom door closed behind the both of you.


End file.
